


A Helping Hand

by Liatheus



Category: Gintama
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orgasm Delay, mostly dick jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10736697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liatheus/pseuds/Liatheus
Summary: " ...And don’t talk to me about the pain of using my left hand, I could tell you all about the pain of using my left hand!"In which Katsura overhears Gintoki's complaint, has an idea, and somehow, feelings are revealed along the way.Set immediately after the Battle at Rakuyou. Light smut, much fluff.





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This started out as a quick, cracky oneshot piece inspired by the realisation that at the end of the Battle of Rakuyou, Katsura and Gintoki had opposite injured arms/wrists/hands (honestly, anime can be so whatever with injuries, but when you're writing fic, the difference between a fractured or broken hand or wrist is huge!). It was meant to be smut-writing practice for another GinZura fic I'm working on, but somehow feelings exploded all over the place and then before I knew it, I was basically just writing self indulgent fluff lol. 
> 
> I haven't written creatively in a loong while, and this is unbeta'd, so forgive if the writing gets clunky or too detail-oriented at some points.
> 
> Please enjoy!

It’s been three days since they’ve departed from the ruins of Rakuyou, and though the men are slowly beginning to regroup, the mood on the Kaientai remains painfully sombre. Katsura knows it can’t be helped; even with the Amanto drugs and high-tech medical equipment Sakamoto has onboard his ship, their wounds are slow to heal, and seven bodies lay covered in white sheets in the chilled air of the cargo hold.

His steps grow heavier and his shoulders slouch when he thinks of them: there is nothing he can do for the two of Sakamoto’s men, but he has five letters to write—words of condolences which he knows are too often meaningless in the throes of grief—to the unsuspecting mothers and fathers and siblings and wives he imagines waiting by front doors and open windows. Words which escape him, vanishing like coils of smoke when he reaches for them, and leaves him dripping clumpy trails of ink that steep through the thin sheets of paper Sakamoto had kindly provided him. (Also his left wrist is broken, so he struggles with holding down the paper, and he gets headaches from the constant whirring and droning of the ship, and he has a mouth ulcer.) After only three days, the low table in his cabin room is stained with smears of black from where he had hurriedly tried to wipe away the liquid. He hopes Sakamoto won’t charge him for it.

During the hours he does not spend tending to his men and other Joui business, he seeks out a moment of solace in Gintoki’s company, often finding the silver-haired samurai sprawled out in lonely corridors, dark corners and rarely used storage closets, his crutch propped up beside him. He doesn’t ask why the other man hides away in these little nooks; he knows Gintoki’s habits, the worst and best of them, and is well-acquainted with his need for solitude and a quiet space to nurse his tender sorrows during dark hours. Yet Katsura is sure his presence is acceptable, perhaps even welcomed, by the other man. For all the pains they’ve lived through together, Gintoki has never once shied away from sharing them with him (and he has seen the sheer stubbornness with which Gintoki had evaded the worried glances and sympathetic offers of comfort from others, so it must mean something). So Katsura sits with him for as long as possible and savours the pensive calm, two heartbroken souls bonded over a lifelong burden, until the nagging sense of duty and leadership at the back of his mind becomes unbearable and he begins twitching with restlessness. Gintoki never says a word when he leaves.

It’s a relief, then, when he steps into the dining hall that night after Elizabeth has changed and redressed the bandages on his head and stomach and sees Gintoki back to his usual bluster, seated at one of the long communal tables in the hall. Kagura and Shinpachi sit on either side of him, mostly recovered thanks to Yato healing abilities in the case of the former, and relatively light injuries in the case of the latter. Shinpachi is sighing into his mostly empty plate of rice and curry while Gintoki glares down over the top of the young girl’s red hair, ignoring his own half-full plate of meat, rice and vegetables. His eyes are lightly scrunched up underneath sharp eyebrows and his good arm waves furiously in the air as he yells at a bored and unimpressed Kagura. The handle of a spoon hangs out of the Yato’s mouth, and when Katsura steps closer, he spies an empty pudding container in one of her hands.

“—completely ungrateful brat, taking advantage of the pain of Gin-san’s current condition to steal his pudding!”

“Shut up,” she says, words partially mumbled by the spoon, “s’not like you’d be able to eat this pudding with your current condition, yes? Look how long it’s taking you just to get through your meal. The pudding was getting tired of waiting, it was losing its chill, you see? If anything, I’m saving you the pain of having to use your left hand.”

“What is there to see other than you eating my pudding, you gluttonous gorilla girl?! And don’t talk to me about the pain of using my left hand, I could tell you all about the pain of using my left hand! The grip is wrong, the pressure and the angle are wrong, I keep pulling in the wrong direction, and my left tires out faster than my right!”

“Do we have to have this conversation while we’re eating? It’s digusting, you know! But, also, Gin-san, we’ve seen you fight with two swords before; aren’t you ambidextrous?”

“Gin-san’s sword and Gin-san’s sword are two different things! One is far more fragile than the other, and needs careful handling!”

“Urgh, I think it’s your head that needs careful handling,” Shinpachi says with a withering glare, pushing away his plate, clearly done with the conversation.

“It’s the head that’s the most sensitive! Handle with care!” Gintoki shouts out with a whack of his hand against the table, now completely distracted from his earlier pudding woes. Heads swivel towards him as the other diners in the room look over the commotion.

Katsura surprises himself with a quiet laugh, suddenly recalling the silver-haired samurai making such a declaration almost ten years ago, during a sleazy, drunken argument with Sakamoto. A second later, his mind reminds him of other sleazy, drunken encounters—behind village inns and small town bars, away from the men, always in the dark—encounters that he thought he’d outgrown, no more than the wild foolery of an excessive youth. Yet looking at Gintoki, he can’t help but wonder if there’s any chance at all to relive them, if the other man would ever acquiesce to such a thing.

(They are in the middle of a war again, a dangerous part of his mind whispers, and surely Gintoki could not begrudge a helping hand.)

He mulls over it as he grabs a plate and piles it with food from the bain-marie, nods at his men when they call out, “Katsura-san!” (he thinks he sees Gintoki’s head perk at the sound of his name) and goes to sit with them. It seems the mood is lightening for everyone, the rebels happily discussing the latest reveal of the week’s current hottest tv drama series (the antagonist of the series had turned out to be none other than the half-sister of the main character’s love interest, who, caught between love and familial duty, bizarrely self-destructs into a questionable polyamorous relation with the main character’s friend’s cousin’s teacher and that teacher’s student). For once, Katsura is grateful for the inane chatter; it gives him mindless noise to zone out to as he eats his meal and glances every so often at the Yorozuya trio, still deliberating with himself.

He becomes so lost in his thoughts, he almost misses Gintoki and his kids leaving the dining hall. He scarfs down the rest of his food, drops off his dirty plate and cutlery into the cleaning racks and makes his way out into the corridor. He sees them at the end of the hall through the throng of bodies walking up and down the passageway, quickly darting through the crowd to catch up to them.

“Gintoki!” he calls out, just before they turn the corner.

“Huh? Zura?” Gintoki drawls, pausing mid step even as he stretches out the infernal nickname, letting the vowels roll lazily in the air.

“I’m not Zura, I’m Katsura! I was wondering if you have some spare time tonight, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Gintoki’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to speak, but Shinpachi beats him to it.

“Is there something wrong, Katsura-san?” the boy asks, looking up at him with the kind of charming concern only his particular brand of earnest, wholesome character can achieve.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly, pasting on a smile in case his words aren’t enough to reassure, “there’s just something I’d like to talk to Gintoki about. In private.”

“Ne, Zura, you don’t want to hang around this guy in private, Gin-chan does dirty stuff in private!” Kagura pipes in loudly, sending the people unfortunate enough to be walking by them at that exact moment rushing away in vicarious embarrassment. Katsura thinks it would be best not the say that he is very much hoping that dirty stuff will happen.

“Oi!” Gintoki lifts his crutch and smacks it, not at all gently, on Kagura’s backside. “Shut up, little brats like you shouldn’t be talking about adult stuff they should know nothing about! Just what do you think your father would do to me if he heard you saying stuff like that, ha?! You’re lucky he’s not on this ship or—”

“Oh, I promised a call with Papi tonight! I’ll see you later, Gin-chan, Shin-chan, Zura!” With a wave, she runs off down the corridor, the three remaining men smiling fondly at her retreating back.

“What a horrible girl,” Gintoki grumbles, though he still hasn’t wiped the soft expression from his face.

“Leader has grown up well,” Katsura agrees, before turning his attention back to the silver-haired samurai. “So, tonight? My room?”

A pause.

“There’d better be alcohol.”

***

Katsura does not prepare any alcohol. He does this not to be contrary to Gintoki, or out of some fanciful notion of wanting to face the night with a clear, sober head, but because everyone knows you’re not meant to mix drugs and alcohol together. Admittedly, he remembers this only when he sees the little bottle of pain pills the Kaientai doctor had given to them after all the fighting.

(“Take one any time you’re feeling too much pain,” she had said, throwing them all a bottle each, even Shinpachi who protested at first on account of lighter injuries but relented under a threatening glare, “this is some strong shit, works amazing on humans, no risk of addiction at all. Super expensive, though, so don’t go overboard, we ain’t got a huge stock and probably won’t be able to get more ‘til we’re back on Earth. So you better make sure you ration ‘em carefully or otherwise it’s back to paracetamol and that ain’t gonna do you folks any good with your injuries.”

Katsura takes her advice seriously, and only swallows a pill at night, when, without the distraction of his Joui responsibilities, the flaring in his stomach and back sinks back into his consciousness and burns too bright for sleep. Gintoki, he knows from talking to Shinpachi, has almost finished his bottle, and has started filching from Kagura and Shinpachi as often as he can.)

He tries again at his letters while he waits for Gintoki’s arrival, hasn’t progressed much beyond several variations of _‘It is with deepest regret and utmost sympathy that I inform you’_ , staring blankly at the white spaces surrounding lines making up each character, when he hears a knock at his door.

Putting down his brush, Katsura stands up and opens the door with the push of a button near its frame, the door sliding open with a faint hiss. Gintoki’s bored expression greets him on the other side and he quickly steps aside to let the other in. He can see Gintoki’s eyes roaming over the small room, moving systematically from the bed and its side drawer pressed up to one side of the room, the set of larger drawers on the other, the door leading to the en suite bathroom between them, and finally coming to a rest on the low table in the middle, strewn with Katsura’s writing supplies. He hobbles over and sinks into the zabuton cushion, setting his crutch aside before glancing down at the mess of paper, ink and brushes.

Katsura’s stomach flutters and he hurries forward, but he’s not quite fast enough before Gintoki notices the words haphazardly inked onto discarded paper, catching the tight lines that draw across his face.

“Zura… these…”

“Katsura, and those are not what I called you here to talk about.” He steadies himself with a breath. “I heard your conversation with Kagura and Shinpachi in the dining hall today. If your left hand is really giving you so much trouble, then I would like to offer my help.”

Gintoki stares at him in astonishment. Katsura stares back.

“Zura,” Gintoki says tentatively, bringing the left hand in question to scuffle the hair at his back of his head, “did you fall over and hit your head or something?” He sets his hand back down and suddenly switches to a mock-offended tone. “Handling another man’s sword isn’t something to joke about, oi.”

“I’m being completely serious, Gintoki,” Katsura says, frowning slightly. 

 Another staring match ensues, incredulity building again on Gintoki’s face before it falls into something indecipherable. 

At Gintoki’s extended silence, Katsura takes another deep breath then slowly unties his own sling, pulls it off his shoulder and places it on the bedside drawer where he keeps his bottle of pills, careful to keep his bandaged arm from making an unnecessary movements. He pauses thoughtfully, and moves the tissue box from under the table to the drawer as well.

“Oi, Zura, shouldn’t you keep that on?” Gintoki says, and there’s concern etched onto his face. Even with his forehead wrapped in bandages, Katsura can tell that his brow is furrowed from the displeasure in his eyes as he looks at the abandoned sling.

“I’m not Zura, I’m Katsura. It’s only a minor wrist fracture, plus the Amanto meds are speeding up bone recovery, so you don’t need to worry,” he says, and then with what he hopes is a somewhat more cajoling tone, “it’s fine, come on.”

After a pause that seems to stretch on for too long, Gintoki reaches for his crutch. Katsura moves it away and presents his good side to his friend and comrade instead.

“Zura,” Gintoki says again, and this time the worry leaks into his voice, “stop pushing yourself, oi.”

“Katsura! And I could say the exact same thing to you, Gintoki,” he returns in a mild chide.

Gintoki grunts in response, glancing once more at Katsura’s injured hand before throwing his free arm over the other’s shoulders. He allows Katsura to support his weight and manoeuvre him to the small single bed pushed up against a corner of the room, a soft groan (of relief? of discomfort?) escaping him as his butt settles on the firm mattress.

Katsura frowns slightly and wonders if maybe Gintoki is in more pain than he’s willing to let on. Kneeling in front of the silver-haired man, Katsura racks his eyes over Gintoki’s face and body, cataloguing his slack, tired eyes and the long deep breaths coming from his parted lips, the way his muscles seem to tremble underneath the thin pyjamas, how the bandages on his cheeks and the cast on his right arm make his skin appear pallid and grey. He brings his uninjured hand up and traces the back of it across Gintoki’s jawline, feels a pang in his chest when Gintoki’s eyelids flutter shut and he leans, almost imperceptibly but for the light increase in pressure, into Katsura’s touch.

Katsura licks his lips and wonders just who is comforting who.

Slowly, he lets his hand fall away and reaches out to the grab the pills, unscrewing the top with his teeth.

“Hand out,” he says, when the top finally comes off and he lets it drop from his mouth to the floor. He holds the bottle in front of Gintoki’s face and gives it a little shake.

“What are you, my mother?” Gintoki grumbles, but holds out his left hand obediently. Katsura taps out two pills into his palm.

“Do you need water?” he asks.

Gintoki shakes his head, so Katsura leaves him to swallow the pills dry and busies himself with closing the bottle and putting it off to the side, taking the time to slip his haori off his shoulder and fold it away into the set of low drawers on the opposite side of the room. When he looks back, Gintoki is gazing at him with those impenetrable red eyes, his now empty hand resting in his lap. Unable to help himself, Katsura crosses the room again, leans down and plants a kiss on top of Gintoki’s mess of silver curls. Drawing back, he coughs lightly into his right hand, suddenly finding the corner edge of the bedside drawer exceedingly fascinating.

Gintoki says nothing, not even when Katsura climbs onto the bed with him and awkwardly shuffles his way across the mattress, propping the pillow up against the wall and settling himself into its squishy curve. He kicks the blankets back until they’re bunched up around Gintoki’s figure towards the end of the bed, thankful that it’s Gintoki’s uninjured left side facing him.

“Come here,” he says when he’s finally done, spreading his legs and gesturing to the open space between them.

Gintoki doesn’t move except to turn his head and lock his eyes with Katsura’s once again. There’s another pause, the room growing heavy with something Katsura isn’t sure he can name, something like suspense or anticipation, but headier. A sliver of anxiety rushes through him, and he panics inwardly for a second, wondering if he had been wrong in taking this chance, if he had overstepped some boundary drawn up since the end of the Joui war, if he had assumed too much. His mind plays out five variations of Gintoki scolding and ranting at him, each insult worse than the last (rationally he knows that for all of Gintoki’s boorish behaviour, the man is not cruel and would never look down on another for wanting to help,  but under Gintoki’s intense scrutiny, his overactive imagination kicks into gear, and he is helpless to stop it). He opens his mouth to… to apologise and offer to walk Gintoki back to his room, or… or something, anything, then closes it abruptly when Gintoki begins to slide over.

Ignoring the thudding of his heart, Katsura reaches out with his right hand and helps keep Gintoki steady as he moves over the bed and deposits himself between Katsura’s thighs, letting himself be directed by Katsura’s pushes and tugs until they’re sitting back to chest against each other. A spasm of pain throbs dully in Katsura’s chest as Gintoki leans back and settles his weight more firmly on him, silver head resting on a broad shoulder, but he keeps his muscles relaxed and breathes through it until the throbbing ebbs away and he feels nothing but the warm pressure of Gintoki’s body against his. Pressed together like this, he can’t resist bringing his right hand up to Gintoki’s chest, and finds himself breathing in time with the slow pulse he can feel under the layer of cotton and skin, his earlier tension melting away. As he gives himself a moment to savour the sheer elation and relief of being back with Gintoki, of having survived another battle with a comrade, he feels another hand clasp over his and smiles sadly to himself.

Maybe, he thinks, this is something they have both been unknowingly wanting.

Slowly, he slips his hand out from underneath Gintoki’s and places it instead on his lower stomach, just underneath the arm sling. He can hear Gintoki breathe noisily and feels the corresponding movement of his stomach—rising up and down with every inhale and exhale—as he pushes his shirt up slightly and lets his fingers skim across the newly exposed skin. He hitches the shirt up just a bit more, his fingers coming into contact with the bandages wrapped around Gintoki’s chest. He traces their edge then slowly glides his hand back down, fingers pressing lightly in search of tender spots.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, just to be sure.

“No,” he says, his voice breathy.

Katsura feels a pull at his left leg and realises that Gintoki’s fisted his good hand into the fabric of his kimono.

“Are you sure?”

“Goddammit, Zura,” Gintoki groans, “yes, I’m sure.”

Katsura opens his mouth to remind him for the umpteenth time that he’s not Zura, he’s Katsura, but is stunned into silence as Gintoki turns his head and buries his face into Katsura’s neck. His wild perm fills up the bottom left corner of Katsura’s vision, a quarter of the room fuzzing out into silvery-white. The curls tickle his jaw and chin, warm puffs of air heating the column of his neck.

Automatically reacting to anything soft and fluffy thrown into his face, he finds himself nuzzling Gintoki’s hair, his left arm snaking through the gap between Gintoki’s arm and body to rest on his chest, effectively trapping the other samurai in a loose cuddle. Together, they sink further onto the mattress until they’re reclining, the new angle allowing Katsura to peer over Gintoki’s shoulder and bandaged arm, down to where his right hand is still lays pressed to Gintoki’s exposed stomach.

He drags his fingers over the waistband of Gintoki’s pants, lets his thumb duck underneath to briefly rub at coarse hair. Gintoki lets out a shaky breath and it’s all the signal he needs to slide his hand across to the side and begin pushing both pants and underwear off narrow hips. It takes their combined effort, one hand each, before the garments are satisfactorily pushed down far enough to not impend the night’s planned activity, hanging across the middle of Gintoki’s thighs.

From his viewpoint looking down, Katsura thinks the whole thing looks terribly obscene, especially with the way Gintoki’s cock is already plump and half-hard, laying thick against his inner thigh. He trails his hand across the junction where leg and body meet, watches Gintoki’s cock give a small twitch and feels a curl of heat flare up in his belly. Sternly, he reminds himself that tonight is for Gintoki, that he is merely a helping hand whatever strangled feelings he has. He reaches further down and giving the waiting cock a small squeeze.

Gintoki lets out a small noise that could be considered a whimper, and his cock pulses and thickens in Katsura’s hand. Katsura’s mouth goes dry.

Bushido, he thinks wildly to himself, though if there was ever a samurai code, he clearly wasn’t following it now.

Gintoki jerks his hips as if to pull Katsura out of his head and back into the present; Katsura tightens his grip in response and the cock in his hand hardens fully, pink and flush and astoundingly hot. He gives it an experimental stroke, because it’s been ten years and his memory of what Gintoki likes is somewhat faded, but Gintoki reacts just like he remembers, back when they were bumbling, war-torn teenagers, his entire body tensing as he lets out a soft moan. Deciding that he very much liked that sound, Katsura gives another stroke, moving slowly from base to tip.

“Shit…”

He pauses then, unsure if he heard correctly, hand hovering over Gintoki’s erection. When neither of them make another sound though, he continues, this time using trailing fingers and a light pressure to tease and caress until the first drop of pre-cum oozes out. He dips his forefinger into the slit and rubs in quick, tiny strokes until the head is glistening. Gintoki squirms in his lap.

“Try not to move,” he admonishes, taking his hand away and petting instead at Gintoki’s leg, trying to encourage the other man to relax and still, “you’ll aggravate your injuries.”

“Shut up, don’t care,” comes the mumbled reply, and Katsura would lecture him on the importance of rest and health, except Gintoki is already settling, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest in time with his deep breaths.

Humming in approval, Katsura rewards him with another kiss atop his head, hand still stroking the tense muscles of his thighs. Gintoki turns his face away and Katsura is graced with the view of a blushing red cheek, the colour spreading over his cheekbone and up to the tip of his ear. Taking advantage of the offering, Katsura flicks his tongue across the shell of the ear, then nips down on the earlobe.

Gintoki lets out a short, startled moan that fades into a whimper as Katsura starts working at his cock again, swirling his palm over the head with every upstroke. He takes his time—playing with the foreskin, fondling Gintoki’s heavy balls, alternating between fast and slow, loose and tight—as he pleases, gratified at every turn with the moans and whimpers he elicits from the man in his lap. By the time his cock is slick and wet and feeling impossibly hard, Gintoki is outright panting, his head thrashing from side to side and neck arching over Katsura’s shoulder with each deliberately too-tight stroke.

“ _Fuuck_ ,” he moans, low and overwhelmed, and Katsura laments not quite being able to see his face.

He can imagine it though: red eyes darkening into rubies, the corners crinkled with delicious frustration, hazy and unfocused; parted lips, plump, pink and glistening from biting teeth and flicking tongue; his cheeks completely flushed; the tendons of his neck standing out; sweat gleaming on his skin. The thoughts break his restraint, and he pumps at Gintoki’s cock faster, unable to focus on anything but the hardness and heat beneath his hand.

“Aah… _Ahh!_ ”

The moans, though they send an electric thrill between his own legs, break his trance and he’s suddenly aware of Gintoki’s tensing muscles, the way his abs are flexing and his legs are shaking, knows instinctively that the other is on the edge of coming. Hardly aware of himself, he slides his hand back down to the base, and holds tight.

“Hah...? Zura, wha…?” Gintoki squirms again, trying to dislodge Katsura’s grip, but Katsura is too far gone to scold him again.

“Just a bit longer,” he says, when the rush of blood finally leaves his head and thinking is a little easier.

Gintoki makes a noise like a sob, hips bucking lightly, tugging unhappily at Katsura’s kimono. Katsura shushes him with another nip of teeth to his ear, and briefly tightens his hold on Gintoki’s torso. In the back of his brain, he registers a flare of pain running through his injured arm up to his left shoulder, but it’s quickly muted when he feels Gintoki’s whole body shudder against his. He lets go of Gintoki’s cock and starts petting everywhere else his hand can reach—his legs, his hips, his lower abs and stomach—until Gintoki lets out a shaky breath and calms down again, stilling his body once more and waiting for Katsura’s touch, cock twitching against his stomach.

Katsura starts off slow and teasing again, fingers tracing the veins he can feel protruding under the hot, silky skin, softly stroking the frenulum, rubbing little circles over the weeping slit at the head of Gintoki’s cock with the tip of his thumb, perhaps taking a little too much delight in Gintoki’s high-pitched whimpers. He’s suddenly, headily aware of the musky scent of sweat and skin and pre-cum he’s breathing; it makes him feel dizzy, another spike of arousal shooting from his brain to his dick, now half hard underneath his kimono, and he can’t help but lean down and run his tongue across the splay of Gintoki’s neck.

Gintoki moans, loud and rough like he can’t control his voice anymore, tossing his head to the side once more and displaying more of his throat to Katsura’s greedy mouth. The taste of Gintoki’s sweat and skin on his tongue; the tingling sensation on his lips as Gintoki’s throat vibrates with every desperate noise that slips out; the pounding, furious rhythm he can feel pulsating on his cheek where it’s pressed up against Gintoki’s pulse point, it’s all too intoxicating to resist. His licks become open-mouthed, hungry kisses, strong and passionate enough to bruise.

He pulls himself back a moment later and gentles his kisses in apology, laving his tongue over the blossoming spots of colour, but Gintoki doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the other samurai is even more turned on, judging by the state of his lower region. His cock has darkened in colour like an overripe raspberry, and steadily drips clear, viscous fluid, a small puddle forming on his stomach. The sight makes Katsura himself tremble; he doesn’t remember Gintoki ever being this sensitive, doesn’t understand how he could have forgotten if he had been. Pushing the thought away, he slides his fingers through on hot liquid coating Gintoki’s stomach, marvelling at its thickness and slippiness. He scoops up as much as he can in a single palm and spreads it over Gintoki’s erection, dragging his hand in a long, firm pull.

“Dammit, Zura…!”

He ignores Gintoki’s curse and keeps his strokes slow, dropping his hand down every so often to palm at his balls, slipping under them once in a while to rub at his perineum. He thinks Gintoki must be reaching his limit again, because the tugging on his kimono starts up again and Gintoki’s bandaged arm jerks several times in its sling, as if he wants to reach down and finish off the job himself. Katsura speeds up his pace slightly, and Gintoki’s body starts to tense and tremble again, hips lifting off the mattress to thrust desperately into Katsura’s grip.

“Zura, Zura, please, it’s been too long, please…”

For a few seconds, the rhythm of his hand falters as his brain fumbles with the words, because he can interpret ‘ _too long’_ in too many ways, and he doesn’t know which one Gintoki means, but then the man in question pushes his hips up again and gives out a frustrated cry, and Katsura’s brain zeroes back on the pulsing cock in his hand.

 “Come on, Zura, please, faster, don’t tease me anymore, _Zuuraa…_!”

The desperate way Gintoki moans his name, breath hitching at the end of the long vowel, is simply too sweet to ignore.

“Tissues,” he tells Gintoki, craning his neck to nuzzle again at the tufts of white hair flicking around Gintoki’s temple.

“Oh god, who cares, just move your hand, come on, please, I’m so close, fuck, Zura, please, I’m so close…!”

Katsura stops moving his hand entirely.

“Tissues,” he repeats, and somehow his voice comes out stern even though he’s sure his brain has turned to goo, though it’s miraculously still functioning rationally enough to tell him that tissues are very much needed.

Gintoki lets out a groan and throws out his left arm, banging his elbow and slapping his hand haphazardly down onto the bedside drawer until he hits the tissue box. Katsura expects him to swipe maybe a few sheets of tissue paper, but it seems Gintoki is feeling too impatient for even that; he simply grabs the entire box and throws it blindly to their right side. The tissue box hits the walls and lands on the mattress, next to Katsura’s hip. Clearly deciding his job to be done, Gintoki drops his hand back down to his side but instead of fisting it into Katsura’s kimono like before, his hand clenches around the fleshy part of Katsura’s outer thigh. At the same time, he turns his head and suddenly they’re face-to-face.

Katsura only has a second to glimpse the tears leaking from the corners of Gintoki’s eyes, and the absolutely _wrecked_ expression he makes with his bright rosy blush and tousled hair, before Gintoki’s lips surge up to his and they’re kissing, deep and hard and sloppy. Their tongues slide together and Katsura takes the chance to slip between Gintoki’s parted lips, flicking his tongue up against the roof of his mouth. Gintoki’s dick twitches in his hand and he reacts with a quick tug, timing it with a swipe of his tongue against Gintoki’s lower lip. He keeps his hand going, feels arousal and exhilaration when Gintoki moans shakily against his mouth, the vibrations thrumming their way to his chest and quickening the already frantic pace of his wildly beating heart.

Gintoki pulls back with a gasp, buries his face back into the crook of Katsura’s neck like he’s too embarrassed to look up, and stays there, panting. His legs spread wider and hook themselves around the outside of Katsura’s knees, the waistbands of the pants and underwear around his thighs stretching tight. His feet dig into the mattress and his hips begin thrusting up again, skin glistening with sweat.

“Please,” he begs once more, voice hoarse.

His cock feels like fire under Katsura’s hand, his fingers now sliding smooth and fast over the flushed skin, moving from base to head and down again. More seminal fluid spurts out and sprays across Gintoki’s stomach, which tense and flex in reaction. Barely three more pumps, and Gintoki’s whole body is trembling again, muscles locking, the hand on Katsura’s thigh tightening to the point of pain. He ignores it, focusing on the rhythm of his hand, the scent of Gintoki’s straining body, the way it quivers with every stroke, the harsh pants he can hear and feel against his neck. He feels Gintoki’s dick throb and swell.

“Zura, gonna…!” is all the samurai can manage, before his orgasm overtakes him and his body arches as far as his bandages and Katsura’s arm will let him, shuddering violently. Thick strands of ejaculate erupt from his cock and coat his stomach in white, a few drops catching onto the bottom of his shirt.

Katsura works him through it, keeps stroking until he squeezes out every last drop of come Gintoki’s battered body will give. He stops only when Gintoki collapses back against his chest and lets out a pained whine, then switches to light caresses, trailing his fingertips around the slowly softening cock. It makes Gintoki shiver, and he whimpers another protest when Katsura’s wrist accidentally brushes over his too-sensitive head.

Smiling softly to himself, Katsura allows himself a brief moment of indulgence and nuzzles his cheek back into Gintoki’s fluffy hair, then grabs a tissue and quickly cleans off his hand before it became sticky and gross. Dropping the used tissue off to the side, he pulls out a few more and sets about wiping down Gintoki’s stomach and hips, even dabbing lightly where his semen managed to spray into his shirt. By the time he’s done, he finds that he’s built a little hill of tissues near his right hip and Gintoki, the selfish bastard, has already fallen asleep, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.

Katsura finds himself loathed to move, cosily nestled as he is between the mattress and Gintoki’s body, even as he tells himself that he needs to get up and throw away the tissues, turn off the lights, probably take care of his own erection still throbbing sweetly under his kimono. Hell, he can’t even pull Gintoki’s pants and underwear back up with the way he’s trapped underneath the man’s sprawl, Gintoki’s legs still hooked over his own, can’t reach the rumpled blanket at the end of the bed. He doesn’t quite consciously notice the way his head bobs forward again and comes to rest atop Gintoki’s as he thinks over his predicament, silver perm serving as a soft and fluffy headrest. 

As he sits and thinks, lazily drawing figure eights on Gintoki’s stomach, his arousal subsides into a low shimmering warmth that spreads, slow and hazy, from his core down to the very ends of his fingertips. Before his entire body turns to jelly, he forces himself up, beginning the long, extraneous process of extracting himself from under Gintoki’s weight. Shuffling his legs, carefully pulling back his arms, gradually edging himself sideways, he slowly extricates himself while gently lowering Gintoki back onto the pillow. It’s some work to get Gintoki’s pants and underwear back up without an extra hand to help him and Gintoki’s unmoving hips dead weight on the mattress, but he manages, dragging the blanket over his still, supple form.  

He moves the tissue box to the drawer, grabs the discarded tissues and dumps them in the bin in the bathroom, takes the time while he’s there to brush his teeth. As he steps back out into the main room, he catches sight of the low table and the writing instruments still littered across its surface. He thinks he should tidy them away while he’s up, but as he bends his knees to reach down, a sharp burst of pain flashes across his lower back. He stops mid-crouch and gingerly rises back up to full height as the pain recedes momentarily from his back and flutters across to his left shoulder, leaving his whole torso twinging with stabbing aches. Clenching his teeth to keep from making any sound that could wake Gintoki up, he shambles closer to the bed and grabs the bottle of pills, fumbling with it single-handedly until the lid comes off. He pops a pill into his mouth and swallows it heavily, feeling too sluggish to make his way back to the bathroom for some water. As he puts the bottle back down, his instincts flare up and he turns his head to see Gintoki watching him with half-open eyes, his cheeks still pink with post-orgasm warmth and his hair sticking up in about a hundred directions. He looks soft and drowsy and absolutely adorable.

“I told you to stop pushing yourself, oi,” Gintoki says, his words thick and slightly slurred.

“Go back to sleep,” Katsura replies, not ungently.

“Get back in here then,” Gintoki says, pushing the blanket around his chest down as he scuttles to the side. Katsura looks dubiously at the narrow space.

“The bed’s too small for both of us to sleep on comfortably,” he points out.

“It’s fine, come on,” Gintoki insists, scooting back even further until his bandaged arm taps against the wall.

This time, it’s Katsura’s turn to pause for a moment, searching the soft lines of Gintoki’s face for something he’s not sure he’ll find, remembering the words Gintoki had gasped out like a confession ( _‘too long’_ , as if Gintoki had also counted the years and months and days that had ploughed on mercilessly since three broken childhood friends refused to say goodbye before a makeshift grave). Silently, he flicks the light switch hanging on the wall over the side drawer, plunging the room into darkness except for a sliver of light emanating from the digital clock popping up on the wall on the other side of the room. He waits a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light before climbing back onto the bed, grateful for the pill sweeping away the pain. There’s rustling as he settles himself back onto the mattress, Gintoki impatiently flinging the blanket back over them. He was right though; the bed is slightly too small for them, two fully grown men, to lay beside each other, the edge of Katsura’s hip sticking a little over the side of the bed. The line of Gintoki’s left arm is solid and warm against his right, their breathing sounding too loud and awkward and unnatural in the dark.

Hesitantly, Katsura raises his right arm up, bringing it to hang over the top of Gintoki’s head, just above his curls. He doesn’t even need to ask: Gintoki moves into his space immediately, skidding over until they’re squished back together, resting his head on the space between Katsura’s shoulder and chest, just under his clavicle. Katsura pushes back so he’s not at risk of falling over the edge of the bed, settling the two in the middle of the mattress with Gintoki practically half-laying on top of him, his uninjured arm extending across Katsura’s stomach so his hand curls lightly around the top of Katsura’s left thigh. In response, Katsura curves his good arm around Gintoki’s waist and holds him in a loose embrace. Underneath the blanket, Gintoki throws a leg over Katsura’s. Katsura lets out a quiet chuckle at them, tangled up in each other in a sleepy facsimile of their earlier position.

“What’re you laughing ‘bout?” Gintoki asks, but he’s nosing at Katsura’s skin, already drifting back off into dreamland.

“Nothing,” Katsura says, dropping a kiss on his forehead, feeling the slide of silver strands over his lips, “go to sleep.”

He expects Gintoki to make another sleepy retort, but the man either heeds his words or decides that he doesn’t care anymore, his breathing evening out again, body loose and relaxed. Katsura presses another kiss to forehead, thinking of battles past and future, of swords gleaming bright and fierce as the silver soul of the samurai nestled in his arms. His own breathing slows to the rhythm of Gintoki’s inhales and exhales, a languid heat seeping into his bones from every contact point between Gintoki’s body and his. When he falls asleep, he dreams of two young boys, one who had been a corpse-eating demon, one who had been a lonely general hiding under a coward’s cloak, sharing a hand-made onigiri under the full bloom of a plum tree, blissfully innocent of the red horizon glowing in the distance.

***

Katsura wakes up and can’t feel half his body. It’s a long, groggy moment before he remembers why, both he and Gintoki apparently having fallen into such a deep sleep that hardly either of them had moved during the night. He flexes the fingers of his right hand, grimacing when uncomfortable tingles run in prickly sparks up and down his entire arm. It’s a few more seconds before he realises that Gintoki is also awake, feeling the other man’s body tensing against his.

“Gintoki…?” His voice sounds rough and charred to his ears; he clears his throat.

As if moving under a great weight, Gintoki wearily pushes himself up into a seated position. Katsura notes that their legs are still entangled. The room is dark; Katsura briefly contemplates reaching over and turning the lights on, but as his eyes become accustomed to the low shadows, he makes out the silhouette of Gintoki’s back, the way his head is slightly bowed. He struggles into full consciousness and props himself up on an elbow.

“Gintoki?” he tries again.

The ship hums around their silence.

“Zura,” Gintoki finally says, and the way he says his name this time is nothing like Katsura has ever heard before, shy and unsure and laced with a vulnerability that makes Katsura’s heart clench. “Zura, last night—I know that we—before— when we were young, but now… now it’s different, you know? We’ve walked down different paths, and if… if last night was something you did out of your memory of the past, then you don’t have to do it anymore, okay? Gin-san’s a big boy, he can take care of himself, so just… don’t push yourself…”

Gintoki falls silent, his frame trembling. Katsura sits up fully, the blanket falling to his waist with a breathy whisper, reaches out and places a hand on the quivering back, the texture of Gintoki’s bandage sling rough under his palm.

“Gintoki, that was for you,” he says, and the quiet tremors stop. “Whenever you want me, or need me, I’ll be there as your left hand or your right hand. I was back then, I am now, and I will be, for this war, and the next, and the next, and even after when the fighting stops and we’re nothing more than lazy, useless, senile old men.”

Gintoki barks out a laugh. “Oi, Zura, aren’t you already an old man, waxing dirty poetry like that?” The muscles on his back relax, and Katsura feels the pressure on his hand increase.

“A true samurai wields both the sword and the pen,” he says matter-of-factly, dropping his hand away and pushing himself forward until they’re sitting back-to-chest again, his arms wrapping themselves around Gintoki’s waist. He drops his chin onto a shoulder. “I mean it. I’m here for you, Gintoki.”

The silence stretches on for so long this time, Katsura wonders if maybe one of them had fallen asleep again. He only just manages to keep himself from jumping up in surprise when Gintoki speaks again.

“Hey Zura, after we go home and kick Utsuro’s arse, I’ll treat you to some soba.”

Katsura laughs. “All right. And we’ll go get strawberry parfaits afterwards for dessert.”

“…So it’s a date, then?”

“Yeah, Gintoki, it’s a date.”

 

_fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading all the way to the end! My first post on AO3, so would super appreciate kudos and comments if you have time :) Hope you enjoyed it!


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